


Every Man's Needs, Every Man's Greed

by 15Acesplz



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: (kinda), Activism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Arguing, Bees, Bisexual Grantaire, Crying, Demisexual Enjolras, Enjolras Was A Charming Young Man Who Was Capable Of Being Terrible, Environmentalism, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Kissing, Meet-Cute, Multi, Pining Grantaire, Poor Grantaire, more like capable of being a dickhead, will I ever not tag something with those tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-12-02
Packaged: 2018-08-20 02:32:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8233006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/15Acesplz/pseuds/15Acesplz
Summary: Grantaire had a beautiful man standing in his doorway, and all he could think was, It’s eight in the fucking morning.





	1. Chapter 1

**September**

“Good morning, sir! Would you like to hear a bit about my petition?”

Grantaire had a beautiful man standing in his doorway, and all he could think was, _It’s eight in the fucking morning_. He blinked slowly. Blondie had said something. He should probably answer, he concluded. “Uh… what?”

The guy’s blue eyes lit up. “Allow me to explain!” And he was off and running, blathering on and on about what sounded like the environment, though he was drifting towards an attack on flaws in the capitalist system. Grantaire stared blankly and registered none of his words, made sluggish by the early hour and rather distracted by the man’s likeness to a Botticelli statue. He watched his expression switch rapidly from excited to impassioned to righteously angry and back again, his free hand gesturing emphatically. Eventually his gaze turned sharp and his words reached Grantaire’s ears just as he lost a valiant fight against a wide-mouthed yawn. “ _Are you even listening?_ ”

Grantaire scratched the back of his head and tried to gather his thoughts into a coherent sentence. “To be honest, you lost me at ‘good morning’,” he professed. “What’re you here about?”

The blond man huffed loudly, his brow crinkling into a scowl, and thrust a clipboard into Grantaire’s face. “My _petition!_ ” The paper fastened to the clipboard bore about ten signatures, the heading boldly and urgently proclaiming ‘ _Carbon Taxing!_ ’ in red ink. Looking past the paper at the man holding it, it occurred to Grantaire with a halfway nervous, halfway gleeful rush that Marble God with a Clipboard was pissed. He practically had his teeth bared, his eyes alight and his face pink, rather like that of a furious four-year-old.

Grantaire’s mouth twisted into a smile. “Woah, cool it, blondie.”

“I will _not_ cool it!” He shook the clipboard again and Grantaire took a step back. “This is a very important social decision, the outcome of which could redeem our biome!”

Grantaire couldn’t help but scoff. “I doubt it,” he muttered.

“ _What?_ ”

He smiled bitterly. “Look, I’ve heard the whole carbon taxing schpeal before. It’s a really nice idea. But it won’t work.”

The man opened his mouth indignantly, ready to protest. “What makes you think –”

“Industrialism and consumerism have dominated society for centuries. And we only started to give a shit about the earth, what, twenty odd years ago?”

“That isn’t true –”

“Yeah, sure, you’ve got the hippies, but no one took them seriously.” Grantaire suddenly felt much more awake and started to recall some valid statistics. “Even in 1980, recycling rates were about fifteen percent of what they are today. The time to turn things around is long past.”

The man spoke in a rush while he had a chance to give his opinion, his tone frustrated. “I disagree, we can still make a difference –”

“No, we can’t.” Now that Grantaire was on a roll, there was no stopping him. “We’ve lost seventy-five percent of agricultural genetic diversity and species extinction is close to a thousand times above normal background rate. By 2030 there’ll be an estimated six million deaths a year due to climate change and carbon-intensive economies.”

Apollo – because the name really fit for such a vision who rose full of wrath and passion alongside the sun – looked appalled. Or Apollo-ed. Ha. “That is completely –”

“–accurate,” Grantaire finished. “You can have fun playing ‘save-the-world’, Apollo, but don’t expect results. We’re already fucked.”

The anger dissipated, and he just appeared dumbstruck. After a long pause he said, “So you won’t sign my petition?”

Grantaire breathed out a laugh. “No. Sorry.”

He scrutinized him, his eyes intense. ‘I’m part of an environmental activism group.” His voice was shockingly level after he’d gotten so wound up. He held out a flyer. “Come to one of our meetings and I’ll show you what can be accomplished if you take the time to care.” His disdain was palpable, and Grantaire couldn’t decide whether he found it funny or horribly depressing. He took the flyer numbly.

Apollo turned sharply on his heel and was gone, leaving Grantaire with nothing but a flyer reading _ABC_ to prove that he hadn’t just dreamed up a blond archangel wearing a red tie.

\- - - - -

Grantaire felt out of place. More than anything, he felt shabby. He’d always dressed sloppily, but this was the first time he’d considered altering that. It seemed like everything about him stuck out, from his ratty sneakers, to his worn jeans, to his faded T-shirt, to his tattered sketchbook covered in smudges of graphite and flecks of paint, all the way up to his unruly, unwashed hair. Even his hat – something that usually made him feel more secure – was all wrong, unravelling at one edge and bearing three holes. For some reason, this was worse than his encounter with Apollo, when he’d answered the door wearing nothing but sweatpants, maybe because he’d just been too tired and hungover to care. Now, he was starting to second guess his decision. The café the flyer had directed him to was full of shiny, happy people who cared about the environment. And Grantaire didn’t know any of them. He wanted to turn and run.

He probably would have, too, if one of the group – a guy wearing a yellow shirt with a dinosaur on it – hadn’t turned and seen him. “Hey!” he shouted, waving an arm broadly. “Are you the one who out-argued Enjolras?”

He responded with the first thing that came to mind. “That depends. Is Enjolras a righteous idealist with a temper hotter than the sun and looks to match?”

Dinosaur Guy barked out a laugh. “Yeah.” Just as Grantaire was registering that he had a name to go with the face now – _Enjolras. His name is Enjolras._ – the other man lit up. “Hey, speak of the devil! Enjolras!”

Grantaire turned and was faced with Apollo – Enjolras, now. He looked immaculate, even out of a full suit, and even wearing such an irritated expression. “Hey.” Grantaire lifted a hand halfheartedly.

“I didn’t think you would actually come,” Enjolras said coldly, wrinkling his nose. Really. Like Grantaire was a dog dripping with mud.

He brushed it off and forced a smile, holding his hands out to gesture towards all of himself. “Well, here I am.”

Enjolras checked his watch. He actually wore a watch. “The meeting will be starting soon,” he said brusquely, “I trust you are here to listen to what we have to say.”

As it turned out, Grantaire did a lot more than listen. He started off with good intentions, mindlessly doodling little Enjolrases while the man himself went over an agenda of environmental causes. But the things he said were so absurd and naïve and just plain wrong that he couldn’t help but scoff and remark and contradict and disrupt until Enjolras got so fed up that he snapped, “If you don’t believe in what we’re doing, why are you here? You contribute nothing but negativity and apathy! If you don’t see the value of the work that we do, if you don’t feel this is worth your while, then I suggest you spend your time elsewhere!”

It figured that Grantaire would get asked to leave eventually. He didn’t dare, though, only ducked his head and kept quiet for the last ten minutes before the meeting’s end, focusing on his drawings. When the meeting broke up, he got up, hoping he could disappear from this café and never return.

“Hey, blue shirt!” He turned. The same man who’d talked to him before was looking at him. “You should stay for drinks, it’ll be fun.”

Grantaire was never one to turn down a drink, so he did stay, joining Dinosaur Guy and his companion, a man with a blue sweater vest and wire rim glasses. Seconds after he sat down Enjolras approached their table. “I’ll have you know,” he started crisply, addressing Grantaire, “that my petition now has thirty-six signatures, after I campaigned for just one day. _That_ is progress.”

“Sure,” Grantaire agreed, setting down his drink, “but who looks at the petition? Some asshole secretary from the government who can’t be bothered to send it along, and throws it away? No, he doesn’t even recycle it. He throws it away.” He knew he was needling him, and he had no intentions of stopping. He’d discovered it to be quite enjoyable.

“That is such a close-minded expectation!” Enjolras burst out. He looked like he was just short of stomping his foot.

“You know, Apollo,” Grantaire drawled, “for someone who’s dead-set on stopping global warming, you certainly have no chill.”

The man with the dinosaur shirt laughed loudly as Enjolras let out a frustrated roar and stalked away. “I like this one, Joly,” he said to the sweater vest guy, swinging an arm around Grantaire’s shoulder. “Let’s keep him.”

It turned out Dinosaur Guy was named Lesgle but known as Bossuet, and was dating Joly, who appeared to be something of a hypochondriac, and someone named Musichetta, who wasn’t there but who Joly and Bossuet raved about for a good quarter hour once they had several drinks in them. They proved to be good drinking buddies with a great appreciation for Grantaire’s horrible puns, and as they departed much later in the night they begged Grantaire to come to the meeting next week.

Without even hesitating, he promised he would.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So what do you have in mind? You want ‘peppy, optimistic, we-can-do-this’, or ‘doomsday, step-it-the-fuck-up-before-we-all-die’?”

**November**

“So what do you have in mind? You want ‘peppy, optimistic, we-can-do-this’, or ‘doomsday, step-it-the-fuck-up-before-we-all-die’?” Grantaire twirled his pencil and waited for an answer.

Enjolras just stared at him, bewildered. “I – What does that even mean?”

“I’ll do one of each, then,” he said with a grin.

In the past two months, Grantaire had somehow been adopted into the Association Battling Climate Change, despite the fact that he continued to cause nothing but trouble. For some reason the members of the group seemed to like him anyway. Except for Enjolras, of course. Enjolras had progressed from rising to his bait to consistently ignoring him. Even though Grantaire knew that he was being a dick and deserved it, it still stung, because as well as becoming the ABC’s residential pain in the ass, he’d somehow managed to fall hard and fast for Enjolras. Apparently, his idiotic, wine-sodden brain thought that disapproval and disgust translated to chemistry, and consequentially told his hand that the best way to spend meetings was by obsessively drawing Enjolras detail for detail. He had ten portraits of Enjolras in his sketchbook and halfway hated himself for it. A failed artist with an alcohol dependency didn’t have a right to even think about a beautiful man with sparkling ambitions.

Nevertheless, he made friends in the ABC, starting with Joly and Bossuet until he seemed to have befriended the entire group: from sweet, introspective Prouvaire; to social butterfly Courfeyrac; to Bahorel, whose laugh sounded like a cannon going off; to Combeferre, Enjolras’s brilliant second-in-command; to smart and witty Éponine; plus a whole slew of others. After he’d attended a few meetings, Courfeyrac’s awkward roommate Marius approached him and begged for help with his assignment – because Enjolras actually gave assignments. Marius’s was to design a promotion poster, and he was going to pieces over it, claiming he ‘didn’t do art’. Grantaire took pity on him and made a poster he could face Enjolras with – Marius’s single attempt had featured stick figures. Everyone had known that Marius hadn’t produced the poster, and thereafter Enjolras entrusted all artistic endeavors to Grantaire. Grantaire took it with a grain of salt; Enjolras once commented that designing posters was the only thing he was good for.

By the end of the meeting he’d finished a sketch of a poster he liked and its complete opposite, which he was certain Enjolras would like, as well as making a start on another sketch of Enjolras – this time brandishing a pen like a weapon, his expression far too enthusiastic for a discussion about wind mills – before socialization and alcohol distracted him. Enjolras didn’t ask for the poster designs until well into the evening, by which time Grantaire barely recalled designing a poster. He looked waspish as Grantaire finally registered his request and clumsily shoved his sketchbook at him.

“They’re on, um, a page, jus’ take it an’ tell me what one y’like.” Then he turned back to the others, laughing at a madcap story Courfeyrac was telling, and forgot all about it.

\- - - - -

Grantaire couldn’t find his sketchbook and he was close to panicking. It wasn’t so much that he needed anything in it – his sketchbook was almost exclusively full of personal bullshit that never saw the light of day. And yet that was precisely why he needed it. Not being able to find his sketchbook was like not being able to find his arm: a completely insane, impossible emergency.

He spent all of Friday tearing up his apartment until arriving at the horrifying conclusion that the sketchbook was somewhere outside his home. He contacted five of the people he’d been with the previous night without getting any answers. It was when he called a sixth person, Jean Prouvaire, that he discovered where the sketchbook was.

“That sketchbook you carry around?” They hummed in thought, then continued. “Oh, that’s right. Enjolras has it.”

Grantaire choked. “What? Why the fuck –”

“You did some posters, remember? You gave it to him.” Jehan sounded puzzled.

“Jesus fuck, I must’ve been so out of it – Shit. Thanks, Jehan,” he added hurriedly. “ _Shit!_ ”

“Grantaire, are you okay?”

“When am I ever? But no, I’m not, I need that sketchbook back, now. Do you have Enjolras’s address?” he asked desperately.

Prouvaire gave him the address, and Grantaire thanked them again, swore a few more times, and hung up.

_Enjolras._ Of all the people who could get their hands on that goddamn sketchbook, it had to be _Enjolras._ Grantaire briefly considered the possibility that he had been marked at birth for a shitstorm of misfortune             as he grabbed a jacket and practically ran to Enjolras’s place.

When he got there he rang the doorbell with the right number on it and hopped on his feet until the intercom to his left crackled and Enjolras’s voice came through.

“Courfeyrac?”

Grantaire blinked. “What – uh, no, it’s, uh – it’s Grantaire,” he stated weakly.

“ _Grantaire?_ ” He sounded so incredulous that for one wild moment Grantaire thought he’d turn him away. Then he said, “Well, come up, I guess.”

On the way up to Enjolras’s floor it occurred to Grantaire that he really didn’t think this through. This was the first time he’d been alone with Enjolras since the day they met. What was even going to say? What would _Enjolras_ say? By the time Grantaire reached Enjolras’s door he was prepared to be greeted with, ‘You’re a creep, take your sketchbook and get out of my save-the-world club’.

Instead, the first thing Enjolras said when he opened the door was, “You’re here about the poster designs, right?”

Grantaire faltered. “I – Uh – Yeah, sure. Let’s go with that.”

“Well, the first one was a little morbid. But I liked the second one, you should definitely finalize it.” As he talked he strode over to a desk in the corner of the room, which would look like a living room if it had more furniture and fewer books. Grantaire took one step into the apartment, lingering by the doorway in case he felt a sudden desire to run away and never look back. “Though, I was thinking,” he was returning to where Grantaire stood, sketchbook in hand, “it might capture our message more if you had a _group_ of people holding up the earth. But I want to keep the superhero shadow.” He started flipping pages in the sketchbook and Grantaire’s mouth dried up. But he stopped when he got to the poster design and started pointing to various aspects of the drawing. “It just seems it would be better if that was their collective shadow, because our main goal is to gather a community large enough to sway society to the side of right. Progress isn’t a one-person job. Does that make sense?”

Grantaire couldn’t see what else to do but nod. “Um. Yeah. Sure, I’ll do anything you want.” And god, _why_ did that sound so suggestive to his ears? He wanted to punch himself in the face. He also really wanted his sketchbook back. He held out his hand. “Um, if I could just… take that?”

“Oh, of course.” Enjolras handed him the sketchbook and Grantaire quickly drew it to his chest.

He had a moment of personal hell when he started rambling mindlessly, as he always did when he was nervous. “Well, thanks, I guess that’s it, I mean, I guess that’s all there is to talk about, I’ll see you next week, probably, I mean, maybe sooner, but – You know.” He stopped himself while he still could, his face flushing.

“Hey, um,” Enjolras said suddenly, his tone curious, “are those drawings supposed to be me?”

Oh, _shit._ He should have known he wouldn’t get off so easy. “I – Uh – Which ones?” he asked idiotically, feeling like a deer in headlights.

Enjolras squinted, confused. “The portraits. The ones that look like me.”

“Um. Yeah. They are,” Grantaire told his beat-up sneakers. God, he could kick himself, for drunkenly giving Enjolras his sketchbook, for drawing those stupid pictures, for even daring to go to an environmentalism meeting and fall in love.

“Well,” Enjolras said after an excruciating pause, “They’re really good.”

Grantaire didn’t know what he’d been expecting to hear, but it wasn’t that, so out of instinct he lifted his eyes and started to apologize. “I’m sorry, Apollo, really, it was stupid of me, if I – What?”

“The drawings,” he reiterated. “You have a lot of talent.”

“Oh. Um, thanks.” Grantaire tried to process what had just happened and for some reason decided it would be a good idea to say, “I guess that’s two things I’m good for, now.”

Enjolras grimaced. “Oh, that. I never did, but I meant to apologize for saying that. I – I realized it was uncalled for.” What Grantaire got from that was, ‘Combeferre told me it was a dickish thing to say’, but he appreciated the sentiment. “So, I’m sorry.”

Grantaire didn’t think he’d ever heard Enjolras say ‘I’m sorry’ to anyone, but he looked like he really meant it. He fell in love a little more right there, which was pathetic, really. It was a basic expression of respect, not a proclamation of adoration. Even so, it influenced Grantaire to stare stupidly for a beat too long. He jerked his head like he was trying to shake off his feelings and repeated, “Thanks. I guess. Thanks for the sketchbook, too. And the compliment, I guess. Thanks.” Jesus Christ, he sounded like a broken record. “I’ll go now.” And he turned and left as fast as he could without obviously running away.

Later that day he drew and then painted Enjolras, his face solemn and honest, the word ‘sorry’ on his lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that was fun! As you can see, Grantaire kind of lowkey but actually highkey hates himself. But the ending was cute, so I guess that makes up for his internal battle.  
> Until next week, then!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac had trouble on his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to let everyone know, there's an offhand comment in this chapter that's a little bit questionable regarding a-spec sorts of stuff. I just want to be clear that it's there intentionally, and not necessarily a reflection of my views

Courfeyrac had trouble on his mind. Grantaire could tell, by the way he had plopped down in the seat next to Grantaire, watching Grantaire fiddle with a pen and draw bubbles on his arm, a familiar nosy look on his face.

“So,” he said at last, a hint of smugness in his voice, as Grantaire set down the pen and sipped his drink.

“So,” Grantaire echoed. No way in hell was he speeding up whatever this conversation was supposed to be.

“A little bird told me,” Courfeyrac started, annoyingly singsong, “that _someone_ has the hots for Enjolras.”

Grantaire snapped his head over to look at Courfeyrac. “Oh my – Fuck you!”

Courfeyrac just cackled. “Your face! You just got so red! Okay, now I have proof.”

He hid his head in his arms. “I hate you,” he groaned, his voice muffled. “How the hell did you find out? Whoever told you, fuck them. Seriously.”

“I bet you’d love to,” Courfeyrac sniggered.

Grantaire lifted his head, horrified. “No.”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac confirmed, wearing a shit-eating grin.

Grantaire slumped back onto the bar. “Courfeyrac, I’m moving to Switzerland. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Apparently,” Courfeyrac continued, his tone nothing short of gleeful, “you’ve drawn pictures of him. A lot of them.”

Grantaire moaned in response. “God, his face. I hate his stupidly perfect face.”

“How many drawings of him do you have?” Courfeyrac needled. “Five? Twenty?”

He flipped Courfeyrac off without looking up. “I _painted_ him last week,” he whimpered.

Courfeyrac practically fell off his seat laughing. “You didn’t!”

“I swear to god, Courf, if you tell him that I’ll slit your throat,” he warned, glancing at Courfeyrac to glare at him. “It’s bad enough, with him knowing that I – Jesus, what does he even think? He probably hates me, but he’s just too polite to say anything. Oh, wait. He already hated me. Great.”

“He doesn’t hate you,” Courfeyrac protested. “Well, actually, he kind of does, but Enjolras hates a lot of things. SUVs, Styrofoam, insecticide…. He hated Marius for two weeks when he first met him because Marius was dumb enough to say that he used to think global warming was a myth.”

Grantaire scoffed doubtfully.

“Come on, you have to admit, you antagonize him.”

“Because I’m an idiot,” he said. “Or a masochist. I wish he’d just stop being so – so optimistic and beautiful. Or at least be nice enough to do it not near me.”

“Damn, my friend.” Courfeyrac sounded vaguely impressed. “You’ve got it _bad_. But really, don’t worry about what Enjolras thinks. Yeah, he was a little weirded out, but not because it’s you. Because he’s a robot who doesn’t understand attraction.”

“Oh, _thanks_. I feel a _lot_ better now.”

Courfeyrac laughed and patted his back. “I do what I can.”

It turned out that pretty much everyone knew how Grantaire felt about Enjolras. No one ever talked about it, but he’d have to be blind to miss them exchanging all the knowing glances. The only time Grantaire acknowledged the matter was when he had drowned his sorrows in enough liquor that he started to loudly whine about Enjolras. Luckily, he never reached that point until after Enjolras had left for the night.

Instead of doing what any sane person would do – avoid the hell out of Enjolras – he bugged him even more, calling out any fallacy in his impromptu speeches and turning them into impromptu debates, derailing the discussion with puns and mockery, and just being a general nuisance. Anyone with eyes could see that he was desperate for attention and seriously lacking any tact.

Despite all that, Enjolras barely spared Grantaire a glance outside their arguments. It was a strong relief, and yet weirdly disappointing. He might as well have not existed. He might as well have been a particularly determined gnat that Enjolras kept brushing away, mildly irritated but not caring enough to really notice.

But eventually, Grantaire’s crush and his very elementary-school attitude about it became old news, simply part of an ordinary meeting. Combeferre goes over the budget, Enjolras gives an update on his petition, Bahorel talks about PR, oh, look, Grantaire’s playing an air horn noise on his phone every time Enjolras opens his mouth. Every meeting was almost the same.

Then in the middle of December, instead of walking into the Café Musain to find it buzzing with people as it always was Thursday nights, Grantaire entered, sketchbook in hand, to find no one from the ABC there except Éponine, Jehan, Bossuet, Marius’s girlfriend Cosette, and Enjolras, who was pacing back and forth in agitation. Grantaire was always the last one to arrive, which meant they were missing at least half of their members. That explained why Enjolras looked so riled up. Grantaire asked anyway.

“What’s going on?”

Prouvaire looked up from braiding Cosette’s hair. “Semester projects due. Everyone’s busy.”

Grantaire sat down. “What, grad school?”

Jehan nodded. “Let’s see… Bahorel and Marius are both in law, Joly and Combeferre are in med, Courfeyrac and Musichetta in education, and Feuilly’s art.”

“As for us losers,” Éponine continued, “Bossuet dropped out of law, Cosette and me are

still in undergrad, Prouvaire never went to school, and I think Enjolras plans to be an activist until he drops dead.”

Cosette nodded in agreement. “He’s really mad about everyone skipping the meeting. He has a new cause.”

Grantaire grinned, glancing at Enjolras as he stopped pacing and vehemently ran a hand through his hair, huffing in frustration. “What cause?” he asked, loud enough for Enjolras to hear.

“ _Road salts!_ ” Enjolras snarled, as if it was all Grantaire’s fault that road salts – and grad school – existed. “I have done extensive research on commercial use and private use of road salts. You would not _believe_ the chemicals that are used to produce the salt, the pollution created from the process, the pollution caused when the salt is left on the road to evaporate. It would obviously take extensive lobbying to rid highways and freeways of salt, but if we can convince civilians to use a safer alternative –” Enjolras had started pacing again and now stopped, throwing his arms up. “And of _course, now_ is when everyone decides they have more _important_ things to do than rehabilitate our planet!” He made a familiar noise that Bossuet once described as ‘angry-baby-dinosaur-Enjolras’. Grantaire had been known to actively try to incite that noise. He hid a snicker.

Enjolras wheeled around, looking murderous. “Do you think this is _funny_?”

“Well, you know me, Apollo.” He waved his hand casually. “I can be quiet or serious, but never both.”

“If you aren’t here to help –” He looked around at the small group, irate. “You know what, never mind. I’ll take care of this myself.” He swept up his stack of papers and stormed out of the café.

“Well,” Bossuet said after a pregnant pause, “long meeting, huh?”

\- - - - - 

It was Saturday night, and Grantaire was feeling sorry for himself. He decided to brave the thickly falling snow and bought a few bottles of wine before heading to the nearest crafts store with plans to buy the first expensive art supply that caught his eye. The plans were never executed due to a minor distraction in front of the hardware store.

“Free bags of sand! Sir! Sir, do you realize how much you’re damaging the earth for the sake of convenience? I have a safe alternative to road salts which obstructs ice formation almost as efficiently, if you would just –”

Grantaire stopped dead in his tracks. _What the fuck_ was Enjolras doing standing in front of a hardware store surrounded by bags of sand and clutching a sign that declared ‘ _Road Salts Kill!’_ at nine at night in a small snowstorm?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooooh, a mini cliffhanger!!!!! The next chapter's going to be a doozy, get excited.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Private use of road salts is a toxic and completely preventable practice! Be the source of change in your community and use sand!”
> 
> “Apollo?”
> 
> Enjolras turned. “Grantaire?”

“Private use of road salts is a toxic and completely preventable practice! Be the source of change in your community and use sand!”

“ _Apollo?_ ”

Enjolras turned. “Grantaire?”

Grantaire marched over to where Enjolras stood. “What’s _wrong_ with you?”

He scrunched up his nose in disdain. “Just because _you_ don’t care about the fate of our planet –”

“Chill, Apollo,” Grantaire interrupted. “It doesn’t matter to me what you campaign about, but why in _hell_ would you do it outside without gloves or a hat? Jesus, you’re shivering!”

“My comfort is a small sacrifice for –” He sniffed and tossed his hair over his shoulder, altering his grip on the sign. “For the stability of the biome.”

Grantaire tisked. “You’re willing to get frostbite over _road salts_? Jesus Christ, I mean, look around, Apollo. No one here’s even listening to you.” Two people passed carrying bags of salt.

“Maybe because you’re distracting me!” Enjolras hissed. “Excuse me! Sir! Madam! Would you care to hear a bit about a safer way to rid –” He trailed off as they walked away without looking back, hanging his head with a sigh. Grantaire didn’t think he’d ever seen Enjolras look so beaten.

“Look, um,” Grantaire started, “my place is a block from here. If you want, I have, you know, a space heater and dry clothes. I mean, you don’t have to, but, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck, already regretting the offer.

Enjolras narrowed his eyes, contemplative, then suddenly sneezed violently. He wilted a bit, sniffling. “Well… alright.”

\- - - - -

“Um, sorry about the mess.” Grantaire kicked aside a couple empty beer cans and a book to make space for Enjolras’s sign. He’d insisted on carrying it, as well as forcing his gloves on Enjolras. Now, he wondered if this had been a bad idea. The state of his living room was frankly embarrassing, and it didn’t help that it doubled as his bedroom and he didn’t even own a bed frame. At least all his paintings – including the ones of Enjolras – were in the back room. Enjolras glanced around, shrugging off his wet coat. It was a very nice coat, Grantaire noted, but not nearly warm enough or thick enough for the current weather; the shoulders of his shirt were soaked. Grantaire plugged in his space heater and hurried to move his laundry heap off the beat-up couch. “You can sit. Again, sorry about all this. I don’t really have people over.” He could just imagine what Enjolras was thinking while he sat down. ‘ _Of course he doesn’t, who’d want to visit this rat hole?’_ He felt a flush creep up his neck. “Um, do you want a drink? Not, you know,” he lifted the paper bag of wine bottles, “a drink, but I have other stuff, like, um, coffee. I think I have coffee. I’m not sure, but I could get some, or maybe – Well, I think the only other thing I have is orange juice, but that isn’t very warm, so I don’t know if you want –” _Shut up, idiot!_ , his mind screamed. He clamped his mouth shut and kept his eyes off Enjolras, busying himself by arranging his laundry so that Enjolras wouldn’t have to look at his old underwear. _Please, God,_ he thought, _strike me down right now. I know I haven’t been very good. I deserve it._

“Coffee would be good,” Enjolras said after what felt like an eternity. “Only if you have it, though, I won’t make you go back out in the snow.”

“Okay!” Grantaire practically bolted into the kitchen. He did have coffee, thank god. He started a pot and considered bludgeoning himself to death with a coffee mug. But then Enjolras would have nothing to drink out of, because all the other mugs were currently in use as paint dishes. He decided against it.

While the coffee brewed Grantaire rummaged through his closet for a shirt without holes or paint stains. It was a lengthy search, but eventually he found one that wasn’t too horrible and offered it to Enjolras. “I mean, uh, since your shirt is all wet. It probably isn’t very comfortable. Your shirt, I mean, mine is. At least I think so. I’m not assuming that – you don’t have to wear it. I – I meant my shirt, not yours. That is –” Grantaire cringed. “I’m sorry, I’m talking too much.”

Enjolras took the shirt. “Thank you.” Then he started to unbutton his own shirt.

Grantaire froze for a second, his eyes widening, then dashed back to the kitchen to check the coffee and hate himself. He was certain he would be dead by the end of this ordeal. Who knew how it would happen – at Enjolras’s hands, at his own, from a heart attack – but it would happen.

He hid in the kitchen until the coffee was done, managed to find some battered creamers in the bottom of the knife drawer, and brought them into the living room with a cup of coffee. He held out the mug and the creamers wordlessly, not trusting himself to verbally offer anything again.

“Thank you,” Enjolras repeated. “This is all very generous of you.”

Grantaire shrugged. “The last thing we need is for our valiant leader to lose three fingers.”

“Aha!” Enjolras burst out. “So you do care!”

He stiffened. “W-what?”

“About the cause!”

“…Oh.” Grantaire didn’t know what to say to that. He couldn’t exactly say, _Actually, I just care about you_. “Not really, I just… I mean, I don’t hate you. I wasn’t going to let you just stand out there.” It seemed that ‘I don’t hate you’ was as close to the truth as he was going to get.

Enjolras’s brow crinkled. “Hm. I suppose.”

He felt very exposed with Enjolras’s eyes boring into him like that. He shuffled his feet indecisively, wanting to retreat back to the kitchen, and finally sat down on the edge of his mattress. He fiddled with the edge of his shirt for a few minutes before getting back up and going to the kitchen anyway to find something to soothe his nerves, coming back shortly with a bottle of wine and an empty glass. Enjolras followed him with his eyes as he sat back down. Grantaire could feel his distaste. He bristled, poured a glass, and drained it without breaking eye contact.

“No coffee for you?” Enjolras asked pointedly.

Grantaire scowled. _Asshole._ “Nope,” he said shortly. He stewed for a moment, a stony silence between him and Enjolras. Then he poured another glass of wine and asked, “So, Apollo, what made you think that anyone would give a shit about one angry guy yelling at people to use something less efficient and more expensive than road salts on their driveways?”

The comment did exactly what he’d wanted it to and got Enjolras all fired up about his cause, giving Grantaire the chance to systematically destroy his viewpoint. For every other statement Enjolras made, Grantaire had a retort to both shut him down and get him started on something else, until they had veered completely away from the environment and were somehow debating over socialism. Then everything went south. It was probably Grantaire’s fault. Something about the tone of the discussion – if it could be called that – changed, a certain acidity added to their words, remarks made that were more personal than having anything to do with principle, their passive aggressive debate turned into something of a spat – though Grantaire hated himself for using a word almost always preceded by the word ‘lovers’. In any case, eventually they were arguing in a way they never had before, and Grantaire had stopped having fun a while ago.

“The voices of the oppressed deserve to be heard!”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from an entitled white boy who never shuts up!”

“Well, I am _sorry_ that I’m the kind of person who has an opportunity to be heard. At least when I speak, I’m doing something productive for the rest of the world. At least when I _never shut up_ , I’m saying something meaningful. At least I’m not wasting my words! At least I’m not _wasting my life!_ ”

Grantaire felt a flash of hurt. “Why are you still here, Apollo?” he snapped. “If you think my words are such a waste, then why are you here?”

“Why are you still tarnishing my group? If you think we can do nothing to change the world, then why do you continue to come and bother us?”

“Because –” No. No, he could not come right out with it and tell Enjolras that he loved him. Not when Enjolras was making it so clear that he hated him. “You know what, I don’t really know. Maybe I’ll stop. I’ll go ahead and get out of your life, Apollo. Without me holding you down you’ll surely uplift the torch of right.” He spoke sarcastically, but all he could feel was hurt, waves of hurt washing over him and making him want to break something or cry or maybe just never see anyone again.

While he stared at the floor, having his pity party, Enjolras stood up from the couch. “Fine. I’ll go, then.”

“Fine.” Grantaire’s voice trembled on the word, but he pushed down the lump in his throat and drank another glass of wine. By the time he had finished it and dared to open his eyes, Enjolras was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry I made the sads happen! Except I'm not, because it was really fun :)
> 
> As could be predicted, they're both going to be absolute little shits about this until it's resolved
> 
> Same time, same place, next week!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire didn’t want to say he was avoiding his ABC friends. But when it boiled down to it, he really was.

**January**

Grantaire didn’t want to say he was avoiding his ABC friends. But when it boiled down to it, he really was. Over the next few weeks Grantaire received a plethora of messages from his friends: inquiries about what had happened with Enjolras, invitations to events he had no intention of attending, and a mixture of puns and innuendo from Joly and Bossuet that they’d used more than once in the recent months to pull him out of a funk. They all went ignored. What was the point in making this process longer than it had to be? It had only been a matter of time before Enjolras cast him out. No point at all in sticking around.

His friends disagreed.

A month after the fight, Grantaire was halfway drunk and still drinking when his phone started ringing. Briefly forgetting his resolve to never bother with activism again, he picked up the call. "'Lo?"

"Grantaire!" Courfeyrac's voice sailed tinnily out of the speaker. "You're alive!"

Grantaire scoffed. "'Course I'm alive."

"I'm glad you picked up, we've been worried! Everyone's here." His voice grew fainter as he presumably turned from the phone. "Guys, say hi."

A variety of greetings chorused back at Grantaire. He smiled a little before a gloomy thought occurred to him. "Everyone?" he asked pointedly, doing his best to keep the still-fresh hurt out of his voice.

Courfeyrac hesitated. "Almost everyone," he revised. "Listen, we really miss you, and we all want you to come back. And... You know how Enjolras is, he'll come around –”

Grantaire laughed harshly. "Oh yeah? He hasn't come around to me since I met him.”

"Grantaire..." His voice veered towards pleading.

"Please come back, Aire!" That was Jehan. "Who will design such beautiful posters for us?”

Grantaire was about to say rather nastily that he was sure a more skilled artist would turn up eventually and they’d be glad to have gotten rid of him, but then Bossuet chimed in, "Yeah, who's going to laugh at Joly's horrible jokes?"

" _My_ horrible jokes?" Joly interjected. "What about yours? No one likes your jokes but Aire.”

"How could I ever find a better darts partner?" Bahorel added.

They went on for a while, coming up with reasons they needed him, until Grantaire sighed. "Fine," he conceded, fighting a genuine smile. "I'll be at the next meeting."

His friends – his wonderful friends whom he didn't deserve at all – cheered.

\- - - - -

**March**

Enjolras was excited about something. It was obvious, even from the very back of the room; he kept drumming his fingers and tossing his hair impatiently as he waited for old business to finish, his arms crossed and a barely suppressed smile on his face. Joly and Bossuet were speculating in whispers how long he’d be able to contain himself if Combeferre never stopped reviewing the budget. Grantaire, for his part, hoped that he’d last awhile – the keyed-up look on his face was just too adorable to not memorialize on paper.

He’d just added the finishing touches to capture the curve of Enjolras’s mouth when Combeferre said, in a long-suffering but fond tone, “And if that’s all, I believe Enjolras has something to tell us.”

Enjolras bounded to his feet. “Yes, I do, thank you. This is very big news. We, the ABC,” he paused for dramatic effect, “are going to make a public service announcement!” He smiled smugly at the interested murmurs and went on. “I think it’ll be an excellent group project, and I got a list of thirty names from the farmer’s market, _thirty_ vendors would be willing to make fifty euro contributions, should we need that kind of sponsoring.”

After everyone was done marveling over that, Cosette spoke up. “Hey, Enjolras? Would it be too much to ask exactly what this PSA would be about?”

Enjolras got a familiar glint in his eye, and pronounced a single word. “Bees.”

Bossuet knocked over his chair standing up, and everyone turned to look at him. “Have you heard,” he announced, “the _buzz_ about bees?”

The laughter Joly and Grantaire burst into upon hearing that was frankly indecent. Everyone else groaned. Bossuet looked proud.

Once everyone settled down, Enjolras sprang back into action. Apparently, he’d pre-prepared a list of goals to accomplish just in this first meeting, complete with three assigned groups. “Joly, Pontmercy, and Musichetta, you’re with me for bee research,” he read off his clipboard. “Ferre, Bahorel, Cosette, and Éponine, start talking about expenses so we can get an idea of our required budget. And Courf, Bossuet, Feuilly, and Prouvaire, you can get started on the script. Remember, it needs to be about sixty seconds, no longer. Let the research group know if there’s anything in particular you need to verify –”

Grantaire wasn’t listening anymore. He swallowed, eyes on the table, and pretended he didn’t feel Joly and Bossuet looking at him. He had thought, he had _hoped_ for a moment that maybe this new project would make Enjolras stop ignoring him. What an idiot he was.

Grantaire might have been back on good terms with the group, but he wasn’t still on speaking terms with Enjolras, even though it had been months since the road salt incident. Courfeyrac had told him that Enjolras refused to talk about what had happened; he only said that he was not about to apologize for not doing anything wrong. Grantaire matched his stubbornness by telling anyone who asked that he wouldn’t apologize until Enjolras did. Acting angry was a good way to hide how hurt he still was.

Everyone had started to rearrange themselves into their groups. Someone tapped his shoulder. It turned out to be Combeferre. Grantaire had never seen cool, composed Combeferre look so cross. “I’m sorry, Grantaire,” he said, without any prelude. “I love Enjolras to death but he’s acting like an ass. Join whichever group you’d like.”

Grantaire nodded, giving him a halfhearted smile, and weighed his options. He would rather eat a rat carcass covered in spoiled mayonnaise than research bees with Enjolras, and he wouldn’t be any use to anyone trying to work out a budget; he could barely keep track of his own finances. That left the writing group. He found them and pulled up a chair. They were in the middle of a fierce debate over whether Bossuet’s bad joke should be their opening hook.

“Guys,” Courfeyrac was whining, “don’t you understand that a pun is dorkiest possible first impression we could give an audience?”

“Since when are public service announcements anything but dorky?” Grantaire interjected.

Courfeyrac turned. “Grantaire, _you’re_ ganging up on me, too? This is a serious betrayal!”

He shrugged. “I’m just saying. This is going to be totally dorky no matter what, so why not have some fun with it?’

“ _Thank_ you, Aire!” Bossuet exclaimed. “What’s the point of life without as many puns as possible?”

“Courf, there’s now four votes in favor of the pun,” Feuilly pointed out. “Give it up.”

Once Courfeyrac surrendered, they moved on. Enjolras stopped by briefly to drop off sheets of facts and check on them (Grantaire feigned interest in Jehan’s beaded bracelets until he left), and by the end of the meeting they had a tried and tested sixty second script with a line for everyone, along with a half-formed budget plan.

Grantaire didn’t expect to hear from anyone about the matter until the meeting the next week. Instead, he was awoken at ten past noon on Monday by the incessant buzzing of his phone. When he rolled out of bed and looked, he found messages from three different people, first Bossuet ( _Dude where r u??? Meeting rn!_ ), then Courfeyrac ( _Heyyyy dude come to Musain for meeting when you get this. Looks like you were missed on the message list. Whoops!_ ), and finally Éponine, blunt as always ( _Enj ““““FORGOT”””” to tell you about meeting today. What a dick. Just come_ ).

Grantaire leapt up far too quickly for someone still half-asleep, and nearly careened into the wall as a result. When he’d regained his balance, he grabbed the first clothes he could find, slicked on deodorant, and shoved his hat over his uncontainable bedhead. He wasn’t even really angry at Enjolras, he realized, while walking to the Musain. If he had any anger in him, it was hidden far under heavy, numbing hurt.

He arrived at half past, when the meeting was well under way. Enjolras didn’t even blink when he slipped in, plowing on with discussion of filming locations and logistics.

“The script calls for a few different things, if I understand correctly. A garden, or plants at the very least; examples of local apiculture and agriculture. We could probably find local beekeepers and farmers who’d be willing to let us use their locations.”

“Quite a few farmers also keep bees,” Combeferre commented. “It’d be a bit easier to find one and kill two birds with one stone. And do we know anyone with a home garden?”

“I have a garden, but it’s on my fire escape,” Jehan said with an apologetic smile. “It doesn’t seem very authentic to have traffic and buildings in the background.”

Enjolras shook his head emphatically. “I object to that; it might be good to show that conscientious environmental pursuits do not belong exclusively to rural lifestyles.”

“But will filming on a fire escape get the point across or make us look sloppy?” Éponine pointed out.

“Yeah, that might be a concept better conveyed on the web page,” Feuilly said.

“Well,” Enjolras sighed, “you’re in charge of the site, so if you think it’s best then make a note of it and do as you see fit.”

“That still leaves us with nowhere to go for Prouvaire’s line,” Courfeyrac reminded him. “Unless we want it to be completely lame and not have any plants in the footage.”

“Here’s a wild idea,” Grantaire called, drawing all eyes to him, “why don’t you just film everything at the farmer’s market?” He was met with complete silence, so he went on. “They have local honey and organic produce and bee-friendly plants, and we wouldn’t have to run all over for just seconds of footage, so everything could probably be done in one day. Not to mention that the farmer’s market people are our sponsors, and it wouldn’t hurt to show our appreciation with a little promotion.”

“I like that,” Courfeyrac mused. Several people murmured their agreement.

Grantaire was watching Enjolras, who refused to look at him, even as he said through pursed lips, “I think it’s silly.”

The chatter stopped at once. Grantaire tried to smirk, but suspected he was failing miserably. “And why’s that, Enjolras?” he said quietly. “Because I thought of it?” Enjolras opened his mouth to reply, but Grantaire didn’t give him a chance. “Christ, I never thought I’d see you snubbing the farmer’s market. You must really hate me if you’re willing to pretend you never said any of that shit about the farmer’s market _connecting the common man to our earth_ , just to sabotage me.” By that point he sounded more bitter than he’d care to admit. He couldn’t have stopped talking, even if he wanted to. He’d thought his anger towards Enjolras was under control. It seemed he’d hit a breaking point. “Or maybe you’re just petty. Yeah, I think that’s it. You’re petty, Enjolras, and I am frankly fucking sick of it. I say a few things you don’t agree with and you decide everything I say must be worthless. I have put up with you ignoring me and leaving me out of things and treating me like nothing, only really because everyone else has been nice.” He stood up and looked around the room. All his friends were gaping at him. “I’m sorry, guys, but I can’t do this anymore. Don’t try to ask me back until _he_ stops acting like a petty fucking child.” He stalked out without a backward glance, ignoring the calls of his name.

And all that time he’d been talking, Enjolras hadn’t met his eyes once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn, what a hell of a chapter. It was long, too. This time I actually am sorry, because I meant to make things better but they ended up worse. Unfortunately I only have a certain measure of control over my characters. I'll fix it soon? I'll at least try, and that's all I can promise.  
> The bee PSA is based on a project I did in Spanish class. I actually have a sixty second script that I pulled directly from the project. so shoutout to my dear dear friend and amazing Spanish partner, who will probably never read this anyway! That project is also where I got the buzz about bees joke, but i came up with it in the first place. I feel like Bossuet would be proud.  
> Anyway, that's all I have to say. Until next week!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras had been calling all day.

**April**

Enjolras had been calling all day.

The first call Grantaire missed while he was working. He could hardly believe it when he saw the notification on his break. It’d only been two weeks since he’d flipped out at the café, and he’d been expecting months to pass before Enjolras tried to speak to him. But he didn’t listen to the voicemail or call back, and he thought that’d be the end of it. That was where Enjolras proved him wrong; he called twice before Grantaire left work, once while he was riding the train home, and then three times periodically into the evening. Grantaire was well on his way to drunk and pretty annoyed by the time the seventh call lit up his phone. Maybe that was why he picked up and said, “What the fuck do you want, Enjolras?”

Enjolras spoke quickly, like he thought Grantaire was going to hang up. “I have a proposition to make and I’d really, really appreciate it if you’d give me a chance to –”

“What. Do. You. Want.”

“I – Well, I was thinking – I wondered if – Grantaire.” He paused. “Would you like to be the sole editor of our PSA?”

Grantaire frowned. He hadn’t been expecting that. “You mean…”

“Edit the footage into the final product,” Enjolras answered.

“So, you’ve already filmed it, then.” He’d had a line, too. He couldn’t say he was surprised, though. Why would the ABC drop everything just because Grantaire was sulking? They had to ‘save the world’, after all.

“No, not yet. We’re just about ready to, and we’d welcome you back in a heartbeat.”

“‘We’ would,” Grantaire repeated, scoffing. “What about _you_ , Enjolras? Do you really want me back or are you just speaking for the others?”

“I am speaking to you of my own accord, thank you very much,” he snapped. Grantaire didn’t say anything. Finally Enjolras let out a breath. “I… I didn’t mean to say it like that. But it’s true. And… it may interest you to know that when we do film, it will be at the farmer’s market.”

Grantaire couldn’t tell if Enjolras was just saying that to sway his decision. “I thought you hated that idea,” he said dully. He was so tired.

“It… it wasn’t silly at all. I was wrong to say that. And I was wrong to say it just because it was your idea.” He hesitated, and then, “I’m sorry.”

So tired. “Are you, now.”

“I really am!” he insisted. “And I would be very grateful if you’d continue to help with the project.”

Grantaire laughed harshly. “So that’s what this is about. Save us both the trouble and stop being nice just so you can get me to do your dirty work.”

“It is not dirty work! It’s an undertaking of great responsibility, and I’m offering it to you because you’re a valued member of our group and –”

“You sure didn’t think so a month ago –”

“ _And_ ,” Enjolras persisted stubbornly, “a valued friend of mine. And I fear I’ve ruined that, and I can’t tell you how much I regret losing you, in both ways.”

He sounded so sincere. Grantaire didn’t want to let himself believe it. He was so scared that it wasn’t true, that he didn’t mean it, that he was about to be let down and hurt again. He swallowed thickly, mentally kicking himself. _Do not cry on the phone with Enjolras. Do not do it. You’d be an idiot to let that happen._

On the other hand, he desperately wanted to believe it. He missed his friends, and he missed Enjolras, the Enjolras who nearly killed himself standing in the snow for something he cared about, who accepted Grantaire’s coffee and clothes and tried to make him care, too. And fuck it all, he really was crying.

“Grantaire?”

He sniffed and tried to pull himself together. “I – I’ll do it,” he croaked at last. “I’ll help with the project if you want.” His voice cracked in the middle.

Enjolras spoke in a careful way that made it clear he knew exactly why Grantaire’s breathing had gone funny. “Are you okay?”

“Just peachy,” he muttered sarcastically. “Is that all?” He rubbed his eyes hard.

“Yes, I, I guess.”

“Bye, then.” Grantaire didn’t wait for a reply. He hung up, tossed his phone aside, and crumpled, shaking with sobs. It was obvious, now, how truly pathetic he was. Enjolras could shoot him in the foot and throw him in the ocean to die, and he’d probably still crawl back to him, just to be near him. He was so incredibly fucked.

At his feet, his phone vibrated, clattering noisily against a discarded wine bottle. He ignored it until he’d calmed down somewhat. It was a message from Enjolras.

_Please don’t feel obligated to help just because I asked._

Grantaire had to laugh at that. His laughter devolved into another hollow sob. Enjolras had no idea, really, just how much Grantaire would do if he only asked. He typed out a response.

**_I don’t_ **

**_I want to_ **

Then he hesitated. He didn’t know if he was ready to abandon all his defenses yet.

**_But... Maybe… Give me some space? As far as the friendship thing goes_ **

_Of course! Whatever you need._

**_Thanks_ **

Grantaire was drained. He set down the phone and fell into bed, though try as he might, it was hours before he fell asleep.

\- - - - -

**_Do u think straight clips w no transitions would be too choppy_ **

**_Bc on the other hand a powerpointish transition might be dumb_ **

**_You know, “oh look at this group of dorks w their hippie ideas and unprofessional vid”_ **

**_I mean we ARE dorks and hippies and it IS an unprofessional vid_ **

**_But the public isn’t sposed to know that, right?_ **

_Do whatever you think is best._

**_Ok I guess I’ll try a few dif things_ **

_And I don’t see what makes us “dorks”._

_And the term “hippie” is outdated._

**_;)_ **

Grantaire regretted the wink as soon as he sent it. He decided to pretend it never happened and keep working on the video. It wasn’t long before he was sending Enjolras more questions.

**_Should the “brought to u by, sponsored by” banner b at the bottom the whole time_ **

_If you think it’s appropriate._

**_Can I put little bees in the corners_ **

**_Oh! Or could there be moving bees throughout? Like buzzin around at exciting moments, or maybe helping to ease some transitions_ **

**_It’s a little hard to describe what I’m imagining_ **

_It sounds interesting. By all means, give it a shot._

He set the phone down again and started to hunt the internet for adorable cartoon bees.

Okay, maybe he was testing Enjolras, just a little bit. Maybe he was asking questions he didn’t feel strictly obligated to ask, just to see how Enjolras would respond. And surprisingly, Enjolras had passed every single time. He stuck firmly by the all-encompassing answer that whatever Grantaire chose to do would be perfectly fine. Even if he was just being so lenient to earn forgiveness, it was still rather cheering.

At this rate, Grantaire thought, fighting a grin, maybe they’d be real friends again after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I fixed it for real this time! Yay! By the way, sorry-not-sorry for fixing it in the most painful way possible :) Poor Grantaire. Hey, I cheered it up at the end there! Don't get too comfortable, though; new and exciting (read: heartbreaking) dramas will explode soon enough!  
> Until next week, then!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> EMRGNCY MTNG ABT PSA ASAP @ MUSAIN

**May**

_EMRGNCY MTNG ABT PSA ASAP @ MUSAIN_

Grantaire had just received that very interesting, very agitated message from Enjolras, with a timestamp of 4:36 PM. It was interesting for several reasons; it had no punctuation whatsoever, and no correct sentence structure, and abbreviations and shorthand, and was in all capital letters. Enjolras never texted like that. He texted like he was composing professional messages to important people. If he’d abandoned propriety it must be important. Grantaire texted back that he wasn’t free until six, and within the next ten minutes he got another message that clarified, _EMRGNCY MTNG ABT PSA 8PM @ MUSAIN_. He laughed, imaging how wound up Enjolras must be having to wait three hours to share his news, because of other people’s schedules. The word ‘emrgncy’ didn’t faze him. After all, how dire could the situation with a public service announcement be?

As it turned out, he was right, and Enjolras was overreacting. It was good news, certainly, but he didn’t have to be so stressed about it.

“We have a potential time slot for our public service announcement!” he said the moment Feuilly walked in, last of the group. “I had a meeting today, presenting the concept to a few representatives from a local station, and they love it. They just want to see the actual video before they confirm.” Enjolras started to pace back and forth. “That means that if we don’t proceed expediently, we could lose our slot to another PSA. So, Grantaire, it would be highly appreciated if you could have the video ready by our next meeting.”

Grantaire nodded. “Sure thing, chief.”

Everyone began chattering excitedly. Enjolras was still thrumming with nervous energy. Grantaire suspected that he wouldn’t be able to calm down until the video was in his hand.

That was why, when he finished it the next evening, he texted Enjolras immediately.

**_I’m done_ **

He got a response in less than a minute.

_Excellent! It’s all ready for Thursday now. Thank you._

Grantaire snorted at the hint of barely-contained enthusiasm. Suddenly, an idea occurred to him.

**_R u at home rn_ **

_Yes. Why?_

**_I could bring it over_ **

_Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to put you out._

**_It’s no big deal_ **

_Okay! I will see you momentarily, then!_

\- - - - -

Enjolras threw the door open, a certain eager glint in his eyes. “You have it?” Grantaire held up his flash drive. Enjolras beamed, and hugged him.

Grantaire’s brain stopped functioning properly. _Enjolras was hugging him. Enjolras never hugged anyone, Enjolras only tolerated hugs, but Enjolras was hugging him._ He tried not to overthink it, he tried to shut off the alarm bells blaring in his head, oh dear god, Enjolras smelled nice, like something sweet and sharp and fresh –

As soon as it had happened it was over. Enjolras let him go, and the world returned to normal. “Thank you so much, Grantaire. I can’t tell you how glad I am to finally have this.”

He shrugged. “Like I said, it’s no big deal.”

“It is a big deal!” Enjolras insisted. “You worked hard on this, Grantaire, and I commend you for it. I’m sure it’s just wonderful – Do you want to watch it?”

With Enjolras smiling at him like a kid on Christmas, how could he refuse?

Minutes later they were on Enjolras’s sofa side by side, and Enjolras had the PSA cued up on the laptop balanced on his knees. Grantaire leaned in to better see the screen. _Toothpaste_. That’s what he had smelled earlier. _Be it known on this day, May 9 th, in the year of 2016, that Enjolras smells like toothpaste._ But the video was starting.

First was Bossuet, in the farmer’s market, walking up to the camera with an exaggeratedly incredulous look on his face. “Hey! Have you heard the _buzz_ about bees?” A cartoon bee zoomed in a loop around his face, and then Enjolras, serious as ever, stood shoulder to shoulder with Combeferre and Pontmercy.

“We are the Association Battling Climate Change, and we want to inform the entire world about our little yellow friends.”

“The bees are in danger,” Marius continued, “and we need them to maintain the stability of our ecosystem.”

“An insecticide called a neonicotinoid is fatal to bees, whom we depend on for pollination,” Combeferre said. Another bee zoomed over their heads, and Joly stood with a calculator.

“Neonicotinoids are seven thousand times more toxic than DDT!” As he spoke, he held out the calculator, which read _7,000_. Cosette jumped seemingly out of nowhere to join him, a big smile on her face.

“But don’t worry! There are many things you can do to help the bees, and they’re very easy.” Two bees zigzagged haphazardly across the screen, and next it showed Feuilly, standing with a farmer at her stand.

“Support local and organic farmers.” The farmer waved, holding up a bunch of carrots.

Next, Prouvaire, sitting crisscrossed, surrounded by leafy potted plants. “Plant bee-friendly flowers and bushes.”

Courfeyrac, with a different vendor, holding a jar of honey. “Buy only local honey.”

Musichetta walked onscreen to stand next to him and add, “Adopt a colony of bees!”

Éponine, her arms crossed. “Avoid stings, which kill bees.”

Bahorel, standing on a park bench near the farmer’s market, holding up a sign with a big red X on it and yelling into a bullhorn, “Campaign for changes in practices that harm the bees!”

Grantaire himself, holding a smaller sign in front of him with a URL on it. “To learn more about helping the bees, visit us online.” Six different hands appeared, all pointing towards the sign.

Last was a further shot of the entire group, plus a few farmers, all clustered together, shouting in unison, “Save the bees to save our planet!”

When the video was finished, Enjolras turned to Grantaire, still beaming madly. “It’s amazing, as I knew it would be. Thank you for bringing it.”

“Sure.” He stood up to leave, then glanced back at Enjolras, thinking. Things had been pretty amicable between them so far. Why not give it a shot? “Hey, uh… that thing you said a while ago? About us being friends? The friend thing? Um. Yeah. Let’s be friends. And, uh, sorry. About… all that… stuff. Before. Sorry.”

He braced himself for a bad reaction, but Enjolras only grinned wider. “I’d like that. And of course, I’m sorry, too, about everything that passed.”

Grantaire allowed himself the tiniest of smiles. “Okay. Cool. Well, um. See ya, Apollo.”

It wasn’t until he got home that he realized it was the first time he’d called Enjolras that since the road salts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a very Dedicated Writer and Serious Researcher and I smelled a tube of toothpaste to write this chapter


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If anyone, back in September when they first met, had told Grantaire that someday he would be seriously considering the possibility of Enjolras being interested in him, he would have laughed. And yet, it suddenly seemed entirely plausible.

**June**

“As with all of our previous information nights, tell everyone you know and take a few posters if you can think of places to put them up –”

Grantaire made a small cough.

“The same goes for the flyers,” Enjolras continued seamlessly, “but those work better as individual handouts –”

Grantaire coughed again, louder.

“Bahorel, of course, will be making the usual social media announcement –”

Grantaire cleared his throat very pointedly.

Enjolras sighed. “That’s all I can really think of for now, and what _is_ it, Grantaire?”

“There’s a birthday in the building,” he singsonged. “Musichetta?”

Musichetta looked resigned as Grantaire and her boyfriends led a chorus of ‘Happy Birthday’. Grantaire glanced at Enjolras. His exasperation had given way to a smile, and he was singing along.

“I hope that was alright,” Grantaire said apologetically to him, once the gathering broke up. “I was going to wait until you were done, but then I thought, ‘oh, what if a bunch of people take off right away and I miss the chance’, so I just sort of –”

“It was fine,” Enjolras assured him. “It was very sweet, actually.”

He shrugged. “It wasn’t anything special. It was only –”

“Only thoughtful, and kind, and wonderful,” Enjolras said firmly.

Grantaire went red and ducked his head. “Well, shit, thanks,” he muttered, fighting a grin.

Something had changed in the way he and Enjolras interacted now, at least, he thought so. All of the sudden, Enjolras was not only noticing him, but paying deliberate attention to him, talking to him and texting him, and giving him the most unexpected compliments. It was the compliments that really threw Grantaire for a loop. He never expected any compliments, let alone ones from Enjolras, and he didn’t know what to think when they became so abundant. He tried very hard not to read into the things Enjolras said to him, but sometimes it was next to impossible. If anyone, back in September when they first met, had told Grantaire that someday he would be seriously considering the possibility of Enjolras being interested in him, he would have laughed. And yet, it suddenly seemed entirely plausible.

Grantaire couldn’t decide what to do about it.

He didn’t consult any of his friends; no, that was the one thing he knew for certain. He had to figure it out on his own.

In the end he waited two weeks – two agonizingly long weeks of seeing Enjolras, talking to him, texting him, and ending up thirty emails deep in a constantly shapeshifting debate accompanied by links to sources, reliable and otherwise. By the end of those two weeks he couldn’t stand it any longer, decided to take action, and went over to Enjolras’s place.

He pressed the buzzer once, then got nervous and pressed it again. He immediately wanted to kick himself. Annoying ten-year-olds ring doorbells twice, not normal people who someone might want to date. Maybe it hadn’t been such a good idea to indulge in some liquid courage before coming over. He was only a little buzzed, though, so it should be – wait, buzzed. Buzzed and buzzing the buzzer. He snorted to himself, just as the intercom crackled to life.

“Yes?”

Grantaire straightened up and shook himself. _Focus._ “Uh, yeah, Enjolras?”

“This is he.”

“It’s Grantaire,” he continued, smiling. What an absolute dork. “Will you let me up? I wanted to ask you something.” He started to chew his lip nervously. “It’s not a big deal, just something I was wondering about. And, I mean, it could wait if you’re really busy or something, I don’t know. Maybe I should have texted before I came over, sorry – I just – This is important. Well, no, it’s not _that_ important. Just, um, a thing. A thing that’s usually better to do face to face. I don’t know if that makes any sense, but –”

“Grantaire?” Enjolras interrupted. “I’m going to unlock the door, okay?” He sounded slightly amused. Was that good or bad for Grantaire’s case?

The door mechanism droned and unlatched with a click. Grantaire steeled his nerves and tried not to think about what he was about to do on the way up to Enjolras’s apartment.

He rapped on the door – again, for a few seconds too long. What was wrong with him, honestly? First he was buzzed buzzing the doorbell, and now he was hammered hammering at the door. His current woes aside, those were great jokes. He had to find an opportunity to share them soon. Maybe if this went well he could tell Enjolras. He wouldn’t appreciate it the same way that Joly or Bossuet would, but he’d tilt his head and crinkle his brow and smile just a little bit, the picture of inquiring, and really, that was enough for Grantaire. God, he was smitten.

The brought him back to his original purpose, and Enjolras was opening the door.

“Hi,” he said. “What did you want to talk about? I’m afraid I haven’t gotten a chance to take a look at that new poster font you’ve designed –”

“Oh, uh, this isn’t ABC stuff. But honestly, don’t be too critical of the design when you do get to it, because I’m still trying to make some letters stop looking dumb. The capital E is really –” He stopped. “I’m getting distracted. I really came over to ask – Oh, and before I forget! Remind me later that I have jokes to tell you. But anyway. Enjolras.” He let out a deep breath. “Wanna go on a date some time?”

Enjolras stared. And stared. And kept staring, with a look somewhere in the neighborhood of horror frozen on his face. Well, fuck.

Grantaire tried to smile so he wouldn’t look so disappointed. “Oh. Okay. That’s cool, I get it.”

“Um, you, uh, you get – What? Um, what?” he sputtered, looking like a deer in headlights.

Grantaire shrugged nonchalantly, feeling his spirits sink lower and lower. What an awful way to be rejected – shock and fear too grand for words. “You’re not interested. It’s no big deal. I was just, um. Just wondering.”

“I – Wait, what did – You – I, um – What?” he finished weakly, still looking somewhat confused and mostly terrified.

“Don’t worry about it,” Grantaire said. “It was just an idea.” Ha. As if.

Enjolras opened his mouth to say something, closed it, frowned, opened it again, and closed it.

Grantaire didn’t know how much more of this gawking he could take. “Look, uh, I should probably go. I was just sort of in the area and, uh… Well, I’ll go now.”

He hadn’t ever made it through the doorway, and that seemed to be throwing Enjolras for a loop. He glanced back and forth between Grantaire and his own hand, still on the doorknob. “Um… Goodbye?”

Grantaire hesitated, gave Enjolras a jerky half-nod, and left. On the way downstairs he called Joly.

“Aire? What is it?”

“Um… I just… asked Enjolras on a date.”

“That’s awesome!” That was Bossuet. Joly must have had him on speakerphone.

“I’m proud of you.” And there was Musichetta.

“What did he say?”

Grantaire cringed. “No.”

“Oh. Shit, man.”

“Sorry, Aire.”

“You know what you need? A sleepover. With Disney movies. None of the classics, the really obscure ones everyone forgets about.”

“And ice cream,” Bossuet added.

“And alcohol.” Thank you, Musichetta.

“Yep, that settles it,” Joly said decisively. “Irish milkshakes and Disney for us tonight, sir. Come over to Chetta’s.”

Grantaire really had the greatest friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooooh, drama drama! I almost (ALMOST) feel bad for all I've put Grantaire through at this point. I promise everything will work out into a happy ending eventually
> 
> Hope everyone enjoyed! That's all for now!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire didn’t understand how he could possibly be so unlucky.

Grantaire didn’t understand how he could possibly be so unlucky. For the first time in months, all he wanted was to not see Enjolras, just for a few days so he could wallow in rejection a bit. And yet, Enjolras was suddenly everywhere. He texted, asking about club business but also about how Grantaire’s day was going; he emailed, continuing their never ending debate but also sending a few separate messages with links to things that he apparently thought might interest or entertain Grantaire. And on Thursday afternoon when they were both at the Musain – Enjolras because he liked to do work there, and Grantaire because he had nowhere better to be until the meeting in the evening – Enjolras closed his computer and asked Grantaire if he wanted to walk through the park and get ice cream.

_Where in holy hell was this coming from?_

When Grantaire asked Enjolras just that, not in so many words, he only said that he’d wanted to get some fresh air and ice cream seemed like a nice idea.

“Yeah, but why’d you ask _me_ to come?”

Enjolras looked surprised. “You were right there. Was I just going to ignore you?” he said incredulously.

_Yes,_ Grantaire wanted to say. _That’s what you’ve always done._ To be fair, that wasn’t what he’d done as of late, at all, but Grantaire was still caught off guard every time Enjolras was friendly to him; and after what had happened, even more so.

“Besides,” Enjolras continued, “I like spending time with you.”

Again, _what the ever loving fuck?_ Also, did Enjolras realize how torturous it was to hear things like that and know that they would only ever be said with the implied, _‘as a friend’_?

However, fifteen minutes later when they had ice cream cones and Enjolras was shaking his head and trying not to smile while Grantaire claimed (inaccurately) that every bird within five meters of them was doing what it was doing for mating purposes, Grantaire had to wave off those few torturous moments and just be glad that Enjolras had chosen him, as a friend.

\- - - - -

**July**

Enjolras birthday party – hosted very enthusiastically by Courfeyrac and Marius (but mostly Courfeyrac) – started at nine. Grantaire sidled through the door at a quarter past ten, to find Bossuet and Bahorel fighting for control of the playlist.

“Aire!” Bahorel’s grip on the aux cord slackened, and Bossuet claimed it with a victory cry. “You’re late, dude! And you missed presents!”

“Shit, really?” Grantaire had meant for his gift to be the redeeming factor that excused his abysmal tardiness. He scanned the room, where everyone was chatting – or almost everyone. “Where’s Enjolras?”

“In the kitchen pretending we don’t all know he’s devouring his new book.”

Grantaire laughed. “Good to know. I’ll be back in a minute.” He made his way past everyone, stopping every other minute to say hi and promise he would come back later and really catch up. When he stepped through the doorway to the kitchen, he glimpsed a flurry of motion that began with Enjolras standing in the middle of the room with his nose in a book and ended with him clambering onto one of the counters, no book in sight. He looked over his shoulder and pretended to be surprised to see someone there.

“Oh! Grantaire! Glad to see you made it. I was just looking for some napkins.”

Grantaire raised his eyebrows and smirked. “How helpful of you.”

Enjolras rummaged in a cupboard for a minute before glancing behind him. When he saw that Grantaire was still there, he pinked slightly and asked, “Did you want something?”

“No. Just, uh… Happy birthday.” He held up his gift, purposefully holding three fingers over the spot where the wrapping paper had ripped on the train. “And there’s this. Sorry I’m late. Bahorel said you already opened everything.”

“It’s not a problem. I can open it now.” He jumped down from the counter, and Grantaire decided not to be a dick and point out that he didn’t have any napkins. Instead, he offered the package and waited for Enjolras to open it.

It was a scarf that Grantaire had painstakingly quilted with skill that could only be called intermediate if someone was feeling really generous (Prouvaire, his instructor, always was). Grantaire had been thinking of fire when he made it – warm reds and oranges, searing yellows and whites, and deep, ashy grays, shifting and changing across the fabric.

Enjolras spread it out as far as his wingspan would allow, gaping. “I – I don’t know what to say.”

Grantaire cringed. Of course something was wrong with it. “I know it isn’t really scarf weather but I’m not good enough at quilting to make much of anything else, it isn’t a big deal if you don’t want it, I’m sorry, I should’ve just gotten you a gift card or something –”

Enjolras cut him off abruptly. “I love it. Thank you, Aire.”

“Oh.” That was the first time, Grantaire realized, that Enjolras had ever used his nickname. He went red and tried not to grin too soppily. “Okay. Good. Well, uh, happy birthday. Enjoy your… ‘napkins’.” He made for the door.

“Grantaire, wait!” Grantaire turned. Enjolras looked as though he was steeling himself for something. Finally, he said, “I want to go on a date with you.”

Grantaire heard him say the words, but he didn’t quite believe his ears. After a moment he had to accept that yes, Enjolras had said that. Then he immediately jumped to conclusions. It had to be a joke, or a misunderstanding, or just Enjolras being his sometimes incredibly odd self. “Is this some sort of weird payment for the scarf?” he asked weakly. “Because one, that was a gift, and two, that’s kind of fucked up.”

Enjolras squinted and frowned. “What? No! No, I’m serious.” He paused and returned to a solemn gaze and a formal tone, as though he was trying to best convey his honesty. “I have romantic feelings for you and I want to go on a date with you.”

This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. Enjolras couldn’t be looking Grantaire in the eye and telling him that he had feelings for him. How could he have anticipated this? Enjolras had given every impression that he couldn’t even fathom the idea of dating Grantaire, but here he stood saying the exact opposite with as much certainty as he had when announcing hard-set statistical facts. “But… But you said no when –”

Enjolras shook his head. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t say anything and you just assumed.”

Did Grantaire possibly misread his face when he’d asked a month ago? He was going to punch himself if he’d really been so stupid. “So you would have said _yes_?”

Enjolras hesitated. “Not exactly,” he said. “Not then. But now I’m certain. I want to go on a date with you,” he repeated again.

Grantaire still wasn’t entirely sure he knew what the hell Enjolras was talking about. “Wait, wait. _What_?”

Enjolras looked very apologetic and started to explain. “Well, when you asked me I hadn’t even considered the possibility… And I was so horrible to you that I thought anything you might have felt for me before would go away. Rightfully so,” he added hurriedly.

Grantaire shrugged. He’d come to terms with how pathetic and fucked up his feelings were months ago. “Well, it didn’t.”

“Yes, I realize that now. But I was just so caught off guard… And I wanted to get to know you better before I made a decision. You might have noticed I’ve been spending more time with you.”

So, that explained the texts and emails and _ice cream in the park_. “Yeah, I might have noticed.”

“And, well…” He held his hands out. “I developed feelings for you. Which is why I’m asking you on a date now.” He nodded once, with finality.

Grantaire laughed a little. He couldn’t help it. Half of it was nerves, and half of it was incredulity at how Enjolras’s mind worked. “Better three weeks late than never?”

Enjolras tilted his head, half smiling as if he didn’t quite get the joke, and Grantaire remembered something very important.

“Shit, I totally forgot!” he burst out. “I was supposed to tell you some jokes!” He feigned outrage, putting his hands on his hips. “Wow, good job reminding me, Enjolras!”

Enjolras really smiled at that. “Better three weeks late than never.”

Grantaire beamed. What a dork. “Okay, okay, here’s the jokes.” He described what had happened and repeated the play on words about five times, cracking up at his own joke while Enjolras shook his head, bemused but still smiling.

“Can I kiss you?” Enjolras asked suddenly.

_No way._ This couldn’t be happening. But it was, so Grantaire tried not to look too love struck and murmured, “Why’d you even ask?”, stepping closer to Enjolras and kissing him.

He barely had a chance to enjoy it – and it was wonderful – before someone barged through the kitchen door. “Enjolras, stop being antisocial at your own – Oh!” Courfeyrac looked like Christmas and Halloween had both come early. “Well, this is an interesting development!”

Enjolras sighed, looking pained. “Go away, Courf,” he said in monotone.

“But –”

“Go away if you value your life.”

“But –”

“One hundred percent not your business, Courf.” Grantaire was starting to wonder how many times this conversation had taken place over the years.

“But –”

“Go. Away.”

Courfeyrac put on an injured tone. “Well, _fine_ , if that’s how you feel about it.” He turned and stuck his head out the doorway to holler, “Hey, everyone! Stay out of the kitchen, Enjolras and Grantaire want some space so they can _make out_!” He flashed them a grin and a thumbs up and waltzed from the room.

Enjolras looked even more pained than before. “I’m going to kill him someday.”

“I’ll hide the body,” Grantaire said.

Instead of laughing, like a normal person, Enjolras positively beamed, as if he was genuinely touched by the offer. “I believe I was about to kiss you again?”

 “Insane,” Grantaire declared, laughing. “You are absolutely insane.”

Enjolras raised an eyebrow. “So you don’t want to kiss me?”

Grantaire pulled him closer, smiling playfully. “I never said that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I hope I made it clear what happened here, i.e. Enjolras being a dummy and refusing to properly communicate. I think I did. In other news, yayyyyy, they got together!  
> Well, that's all! Tell me what you think!

**Author's Note:**

> Yayyyyy, another fic! This happened because I drew something and then I wrote something, almost completely so I could use the "no chill" line, and now what do you know it's been a year since I started this thing and I'm finally ready to drag it out into the light of day.
> 
> We're going to be sticking to Grantaire's POV, so expect everything that happens to seem twice as dramatic as it should because apparently Grantaire is a damn drama queen and I didn't even realize until I really wrote him.
> 
> Also, do not quote me on any of those facts. Some of them may not be strictly true. I very technically looked everything up and found it online, but I made no efforts to check my sources for credibility, because I wanted Grantaire to win that debate
> 
> I guess that's all for now! Updates will be weekly!


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